03 July 2012

I Got Blisters On My Fingers

Amongst and in between a bunch of personal entrapments on Sunday, my phone rings.  It's my old buddy and drummer Steve. (Conversation paraphrased, to protect the innocent)

"You free for a gig tonight?"

Well it's been 12, maybe 15 years since I played in combat, man.  I don't even have a battle amp since that crackhead GF ripped mine off years ago.

"The guy says we'll just drop a mic on it.  Straight oldies, songbook stuff, you can it in your sleep".

Okay, but I have to stay here at my neighbor's place until she gets back or the tree in the backyard is felled and drug to the kerb whichever comes first, and then I have to go to my brother's place, where he is sheltering my #1 son who is in exile due to oppression from his stepfather and figure what he is to do until he takes off for college in the Fall...

"Great, he'll meet us at The Original Ninfa's on Navigation at 4 to buy us lunch and talk about the gig".

Now, a combination of kids and crew allow all 3 dogs to escape.  Deputize kids to recover hounds.  1 kid returns, with one Golden Retriever.  The younger, whacked-out kid is out, as well as the 2 fucking Irish Setter, and I couldn't tell you which has more sense. The mommy shows up with 2 dogs, but no son.  The dogs had contact info on the tags, the boi has no such thing.  The pint sized monster appears, with one shoe. The other shoe is found where he left it, just outside the door, cause that's where he put it before he left. Time is now about 10 til 4.

Phone rings.   Steve: "I'm heading out now, directions please?".  Directions given to my brother's place, with an admonition to drive slowly.  Get to brother's house, apprise myself of condition (his step-father's a cunt. and illiterate, and nyculturniy, my impression, seconded by both sons), offer use of my digs until semester starts, have brother make same offer, and I relay offer from a neighbor for the use of the Kato Kailen Kottage (semi-detached pool shed with plumbing and everything). Phone rings.  Steve.  Coming in for final approach, instructions from tower.

Things are moving too fast Fortunately Steve is known to both the bro and the bo, so there's a short social period, while his engine idles in the driveway.  Now it's off to the Quite Swam (not the real name) by way of a very late lunch.

Steve briefs me further on the gig, and the frontman.  3 piece band, sax for parts - the first set, probably - mebbe a harp guy later. No set list, just call 'em as we go. Standards.  Okay, I can do that, or at least I could onst upon a time.

Ninfa's is a mistake that will just barely fail to come up later.  We proceed to the scene, with Steve following our valiant leader's  .1960-something boat, the one with no rear window, bad paint, beer and gun stickers (NTTAWWT), and hood removed to show off the engine work.

On arrival at the Not The Real Name we find out we're early.  One month early.  Oops.  Lemme make a phone call or two.  'S okay, we're now playing at this other place about a mile from here. 

Wow. Follow the Felonymobile to a place that is a bit...odd?  A firefighter/biker theme icehouse?  I'm the only set of blue eyes in the joint (and I use the word advisedly), and the jukebox is not speaking my language, which is English.  I begin to feel a little pale, a little under-inked, and a bit over-dentitious.

Oh! No PA!  Well a DJ rig that some guy left but nobody knows how to work it.  Bullshit,  I do.  1 mic input, nothing for my microamp.  Set it up, turn everything up all the way, and hope for the best.

It wasn't "the best", but it was better than half bad.  The crowd in the house wouldn't allow us to pay for beer, lots of guys with far-gone heroin and meth eyes told my that I was better than SRV, and the fromtman asked if I was willing to do more gigs - like maybe 4 or 5 a week.

But my fingers gotta heal first. And get another battle amp.

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